To reach between here and there
seems such a simple thing
as I stand at the window and look out
upon the grey wet rooftops of February
with the glass cold against my cheek

To stretch out my arm,
to touch you through
the haze of days
and feel your skin’s
warm glaze against my fingers

To leap across this chasm
this gulf between
then and now

and find that death
only exists

at the end

and we are in between
in the middle
in the eternal present

together

But the glass smokes over
with my exhalation

and the breath is cold coming back in.